oed through all the house.

"Grandmother! My darling Grandmother! Are you--are you
dead--dying--what----"

She picked up the telegram and read it, and her own happy young heart
faltered in its rhythm.

"Oh! awful! 'Bringing'--those precious ones who cannot come of
themselves. This will kill her. I believe it will kill even me."

But it did neither. After a space the rigidity left the Sun Maid's
figure and her staring eyes that had been gazing upon vacancy resumed
intelligence. Rising stiffly from her seat, she put the younger Kit
aside, yet very gently and tenderly, because of all her race this was
the dearest. Had not the child Gaspar's eyes?

"My girl, you will know what to do. I am going to my chamber, and must
be undisturbed."

Then she passed out of the cheerful library into that "mother's room,"
where her husband and her sons had gathered about her so often and so
fondly and in which she had bestowed upon each her farewell and
especial blessing. As the portiere fell behind her it seemed to her
that already they came hurrying to greet her, and softly closing the
door she shut herself in from all the world with them and her own
grief.

For the first time in all her life the Sun Maid considered her own
self before another; and for hours she remained deaf to young Kitty's
pleading:

"Let me come in, Grandmother. Let me come in. I am as alone as you--it
was my father, too, as well as your son!"

It was the dawn of another day before the door did open and the
mourner came out. Mourner? One could hardly call her that; for, though
the beautiful face was colorless and the eyes heavy with unshed
tears, there was a rapt, exalted look upon it which awed the
grandchild into silence. Yet for the first time she was startled by
the thought:

"We have lived together as if we were only elder and younger sister,
for she has had the heart of a child. But now I see--she is, indeed,
my grandmother--and she is growing old."

"Let all things be done decently and in order when Gaspar and the boys
come home," was all the direction the Sun Maid gave, and it was well
fulfilled. Yet, because she could not bear to be far apart from them,
she sat out the hours of watching in the little ante-room adjoining
the great parlor where her heroes lay in state, while all Chicago
gathered to do them reverence.

There was none could touch her grief, not one. It was too deep. It
benumbed even herself. Perhaps in all the land, during all th